“Barrett, before we begin formal proceedings, I wonder if we might address ourselves to a rumor I have heard.”

“A rumor?”

“Laran, we haven’t time for rumors,” Coram interrupted. “We have urgent—”

“No, this is urgent, too,” Laran cut in, stabbing the air with a pale, translucent hand. “I think this is one rumor we must put to rest. For I have heard it said more than once that Alaric Morgan, a half-breed Deryni, displays the ancient ability of healing!”

There was a stunned silence, and then:

“Healing?”

“Morgan has healed?”

“Laran, you must be mistaken.” A female voice. “None of us can heal anymore.”

“That is correct,” Barrett agreed stiffly. “All Deryni know that the healing gifts were lost with the Restoration.”

“Well, perhaps no one has thought to inform Morgan of this small detail!” Laran snapped. “He is only half-Deryni, you know!” He glared at Barrett for just an instant, then shook his silvery head regretfully. “I do apologize, Barrett. If anyone feels the loss of the healing gifts, it is you.”

His voice trailed off awkwardly as he remembered how Barrett de Laney had lost his sight over fifty years ago, from a hot iron held close to the emerald eyes as ransom for a score of Deryni children saved from the swords of the persecutors. Barrett bowed his head and reached out to touch Laran’s shoulder in a comforting gesture.

“Do not chide yourself, Laran,” the blind man whispered. “There are things more precious than sight. Tell us more of this Morgan.”

Laran shrugged, much subdued. “Unfortunately, I have no proof. I have merely heard it said—and as a physician, my curiosity was aroused. If Morgan—”

“Oh, Morgan, Morgan, Morgan!” Tiercel slapped the flat of his hand sharply against the table. “That’s all we ever talk about anymore. Are we determined to summon up a witch hunt against our own kind? I thought that was one of the more expendable things we lost with the Restoration!”

Vivienne snorted in derision, her fine gray head turning toward the young man in disdain. “Tiercel, do act your age. It isn’t as though Morgan was one of us. He is a half-breed traitor, a disgrace to the Deryni name—the way he cavorts around the countryside making indiscriminate use of his powers!”

Tiercel threw back his head and laughed. “Morgan? Now, there’s a thought. Half-breed he is; traitor he may or may not be, depending upon whose side one is on—King Kelson, I know, would not agree. But as for disgrace, madam, our rogue half-breed has never done anything to discredit the Deryni name that I am aware of. On the contrary, he is the one Deryni I know of who is not afraid to stand and declare himself for what he is. Any disgracing of our name was done long ago, and by men far more expert than an untrained Deryni half-breed like Alaric Morgan!”

“But you do see him as a half-breed,” Thorne interjected, seizing the opportunity to press his suit for Wencit. “And Duncan McLain, too. All of you regard them both as half-breeds. And yet, time and time again, they react in ways not consistent with their supposed bloodline. Now they allegedly can heal—something that even we cannot do! Has anyone ever considered the possibility that they might not be only half-blood after all? That we may be dealing with a renegade pair of full Deryni?”